Tokyo subways are covered with ads. Look up and one will see hanging from the ceiling on colorful sheets of paper the latest articles touting the truth through propaganda, cheap journalism, paparazzi photos, and tabloid gossip. Look on the walls of the trains and one will see everything from beer to insurance to waxing services to festivals highlighted for sale and to inform. I don't mind these much. I find it a good way to keep up with pop culture in Japan, trends, and whatever passes for news. Most days my eyes glaze over what's on the walls of steel tubes running underground in Tokyo. Today, well today I stand in awe of people who connect dots not meant to be connected.
I swear I am not making this up. I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede. Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising. This ad ... this ad takes the cake.
Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens. The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open. This screen is informative. It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train. Stops are easy to miss.
The other screen displays more ads. Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk. I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor. What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?" The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away. The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.
Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer. I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them." The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."
Then comes the bar graph. Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer. I hold my breath. I prepare. This can't be good.
And, I'm wrong. Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away. Nice job, 81 people. That's kind of you to try. Thanks.
I assume this is the end. I am wrong again. (Surely, a record. Twice in one day?) This is the part I can't make up.
So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners. We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality. Why not end it there? This is where my imagination fails me. I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message. Sell something after this? Why? Why ruin a good thing?
What comes next stumped me. The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people. A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"
What? Ramen? We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen? Why?
She asks the same question about the blue-answers. What flavor would they be?
For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored. Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things. I am not making this up.
There's more. (Because, why end here?)
Now comes the advertisement. Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation. Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?" There's an app for that. Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask. It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.
So, there you have it. Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app.
I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you. You're welcome.
Showing posts with label Tokyo trains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tokyo trains. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Monday, July 22, 2013
Train Etiquette
I am not one to blame the French. In the case of the empty seat next to me on trains and buses in Japan, it's not the French who are to blame as much as it is my French heritage. I accept this fault because acknowledging the other truth is more hurtful. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
A Facebook posting by someone whom I don't know well but like and respect sent me reeling. In short, he wrote about large, foul-mouthed foreigners on his train who dropped the F word with too much ease, who were loud, and thus ill-behaved. No one shushed them. No one paid them any attention. He laments their behavior and wondered whether he shouldn't have said something to quiet them down to the level of noise commonly heard on any train in Japan. Which is to say, no noise whatsoever.
Step onto any car of any train or subway in Tokyo and the place is quiet. Everyone is in their own zone reading books, newspapers or reports; playing games on their phones or texting; sleeping; putting on make up (quietly, of course). Two people having a conversation is almost rare. There's no buzz, no rowdiness, no out-of-the-ordinary happenstance for the most part. (Crowded trains at night after the drinking-schmoozing-networking events are different.) Throw in some large gaijins who already don't blend, who don't know (or don't care) that laughing or talking in a group only calls unwanted attention to them and we've got a problem. Or so my friend says.
Here's the thing. Other foreigners in Japan may have different stories (which is where the French come in) but the seat next to me on any given train car or bus is always, ALWAYS the last seat taken. I am not exaggerating. People will stand rather than sit next to me. I've pointed this out to friends who are seated next to me. "Watch," I'll say. "See if this seat next to me isn't the last one filled." I am proven right. Always.
This gives me no pleasure, this "being right" part of what I only see as a form of shunning. I console myself by saying I smell. My French lineage comes out loud and strong when it comes to perfume. I simply will not leave home without spritzing myself. As a ritual reserved usually for women of the night, that I leave behind me a cloud-wave of scent sets me apart. I can't smell myself, of course. Once the perfume is on, it's on. I don't stop and smell my wrist or my clothes. Others can, evidently. Smell me, that is. I decide it's this she's-wearing-perfume thing people object to, aren't used to, and that's what keeps them away from me. The other truth, that they don't want to sit next to me, that they don't want to sit next to a foreigner is what hurts.
My friend on Facebook called these foreigners "wild beasts." Certainly, there are gaijins in Japan with beastly, horrid behavior. They make the rest of us look bad and for that, I don't like them. That we're all now lumped together as "wild beasts" hurt. I told my friend as much.
One more thing. I'm not proud to admit if Tokyo wins the bid for the 2020 Olympics and news programs are filled with Japanese commentators shaking their heads at the millions of loud foreigners on trains, planes, buses, and any other mode of public transportation I will have the last laugh. No, this isn't the most mature of responses. It is, however, honest. We are not beasts simply because we are large and don't use our indoor voices on trains. If we are, Tokyo will be filled with these beasts in 2020. Beware.
A Facebook posting by someone whom I don't know well but like and respect sent me reeling. In short, he wrote about large, foul-mouthed foreigners on his train who dropped the F word with too much ease, who were loud, and thus ill-behaved. No one shushed them. No one paid them any attention. He laments their behavior and wondered whether he shouldn't have said something to quiet them down to the level of noise commonly heard on any train in Japan. Which is to say, no noise whatsoever.
Step onto any car of any train or subway in Tokyo and the place is quiet. Everyone is in their own zone reading books, newspapers or reports; playing games on their phones or texting; sleeping; putting on make up (quietly, of course). Two people having a conversation is almost rare. There's no buzz, no rowdiness, no out-of-the-ordinary happenstance for the most part. (Crowded trains at night after the drinking-schmoozing-networking events are different.) Throw in some large gaijins who already don't blend, who don't know (or don't care) that laughing or talking in a group only calls unwanted attention to them and we've got a problem. Or so my friend says.
Here's the thing. Other foreigners in Japan may have different stories (which is where the French come in) but the seat next to me on any given train car or bus is always, ALWAYS the last seat taken. I am not exaggerating. People will stand rather than sit next to me. I've pointed this out to friends who are seated next to me. "Watch," I'll say. "See if this seat next to me isn't the last one filled." I am proven right. Always.
This gives me no pleasure, this "being right" part of what I only see as a form of shunning. I console myself by saying I smell. My French lineage comes out loud and strong when it comes to perfume. I simply will not leave home without spritzing myself. As a ritual reserved usually for women of the night, that I leave behind me a cloud-wave of scent sets me apart. I can't smell myself, of course. Once the perfume is on, it's on. I don't stop and smell my wrist or my clothes. Others can, evidently. Smell me, that is. I decide it's this she's-wearing-perfume thing people object to, aren't used to, and that's what keeps them away from me. The other truth, that they don't want to sit next to me, that they don't want to sit next to a foreigner is what hurts.
My friend on Facebook called these foreigners "wild beasts." Certainly, there are gaijins in Japan with beastly, horrid behavior. They make the rest of us look bad and for that, I don't like them. That we're all now lumped together as "wild beasts" hurt. I told my friend as much.
One more thing. I'm not proud to admit if Tokyo wins the bid for the 2020 Olympics and news programs are filled with Japanese commentators shaking their heads at the millions of loud foreigners on trains, planes, buses, and any other mode of public transportation I will have the last laugh. No, this isn't the most mature of responses. It is, however, honest. We are not beasts simply because we are large and don't use our indoor voices on trains. If we are, Tokyo will be filled with these beasts in 2020. Beware.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Earthquake Drama
I woke up to a grey skies outside my window. Another cold day in Tokyo. I made and took calls, wrote e-mails, finished a report, and got ready for my lunch appointment. A childhood friend who called me butterfingers as I let the basketball slip through my grasp, we didn't get along well when we were in our teens. Now an accomplished journalist and bureau chief of a major foreign news outlet in Tokyo, we were going to get caught up. I made my way to our rendezvous point as my phone started to ring. Taking calls on trains is a no-no in Japan. I answered anyway, keeping my voice low.
"Something's happened in North Korea," he says.
"No problem. We'll reschedule." I got off at that station and began retracing my steps home.
Cue internet searches on what happened in North Korea.
"M4.9 seismic activity reported" reads a headline. It was my next reaction that step off a chain reaction.
"Pffft. M4.9. That's nothing. We go through worse, bigger earthquakes here all the time."
That's what I thought. Really. Now, for the record, I am sorry. Truly sorry. This is wrong. That it wasn't an earthquake, per se, but a nuclear test isn't the point. I am now guilty of earthquake superiority. I've become an earthquake snob. This is not okay.
There is surely a psychological word describing the process in which within thirty seconds, one's mind ticks off a chain reaction of memories. Walking past a cafe, I see a slice of apple pie. This takes me right back to my grandmother's kitchen smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg, warm with more than just the heat from the oven. This takes me to the time I was in third grade when walking home from school I passed a hair salon encountering a scent I had only smelled in my great aunt's kitchen. Bliss. This took me to my best friend of the time, Yumi walking that same route for four years. Remembering Yumi took me back to the time we fought about her skin allergy. (Why?) I didn't like Yumi much. That reminded me of my other best friend, this one from sixth grade. Her, I liked. Which reminded me of the little book of rules we had to carry around in middle school, making sure our hair did not touch our collars, and our bangs above our eyebrows. Enter the drama surrounding hair cutting in our home. Always wanting to experiment, I needed my father's permission to go short. Next, I think about the time I grew my hair out into a bob ten years ago or so, thinking I needed hair in order to look feminine. My husband pops into my mind next with his words, "Don't ever let your hair grow long again. You look much better with short hair." And, now I'm wondering if I need another hair cut.
All that in thirty seconds. This isn't the jog down memory lane I took today, but rather an example of how fast our minds recall incidents otherwise inconsequential but clearly tucked away only to be pulled out when there's a trigger. Today, my reaction to the M4.9 "earthquake" in North Korea jump-started a similar process.
I remember back to a time an associate of mine, finding she was pregnant said to me, "I'll lose my gold status on the airlines and hotels now. I won't be able to travel for at least a year." I believe I shot back with "You've become quite the travel snob" reeling at how her priorities were as horribly askew. Today, the word "snob" also applies to me. Word and memory association stopped there today. I was stuck on the the fact I've become a snob.
Who gets her socks knotted up into a bunch over "who's earthquake is bigger"? Where's the concern, sympathy, and genuine hope no one was injured? Why did my mind jump to competing over the size of an earthquake as opposed to valuing human life? I'm ashamed. I'm embarrassed. I'm also more than a bit peeved with myself.
The conclusion I've come to over my little mental connect-the-dots snafu is this: I'm reminded all over again I've simply become complacent. When leaving my apartment, I no longer ask myself if I'd really like to walk home in these shoes if the trains stop running. I used to, and in the summer would carry around a pair of flip-flops, just in case. I don't carry extra cash around knowing if there's a massive black out, shutting down banks for days or even weeks I'll certainly need cash to survive. There are earthquakes somewhere in Japan every day. While I can't live my life always worrying about "the big one" I similarly can't be as laissez-faire as I am about the fact there will be consequences to having an uncharged cell phone, no cash, and heels that will leave me with blisters the size of Montana if I have to walk more than a kilometer.
North Korean nuclear tests aside, the mental exercise I took today jolted me back into a mode of consciousness I've been lax about of late. And, I hope everything's okay in North Korea. Not in the, oh-go-test-another-bomb-why-don't-you way, but in that the people there, the ones who don't have a say are really okay.
"Something's happened in North Korea," he says.
"No problem. We'll reschedule." I got off at that station and began retracing my steps home.
Cue internet searches on what happened in North Korea.
"M4.9 seismic activity reported" reads a headline. It was my next reaction that step off a chain reaction.
"Pffft. M4.9. That's nothing. We go through worse, bigger earthquakes here all the time."
That's what I thought. Really. Now, for the record, I am sorry. Truly sorry. This is wrong. That it wasn't an earthquake, per se, but a nuclear test isn't the point. I am now guilty of earthquake superiority. I've become an earthquake snob. This is not okay.
There is surely a psychological word describing the process in which within thirty seconds, one's mind ticks off a chain reaction of memories. Walking past a cafe, I see a slice of apple pie. This takes me right back to my grandmother's kitchen smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg, warm with more than just the heat from the oven. This takes me to the time I was in third grade when walking home from school I passed a hair salon encountering a scent I had only smelled in my great aunt's kitchen. Bliss. This took me to my best friend of the time, Yumi walking that same route for four years. Remembering Yumi took me back to the time we fought about her skin allergy. (Why?) I didn't like Yumi much. That reminded me of my other best friend, this one from sixth grade. Her, I liked. Which reminded me of the little book of rules we had to carry around in middle school, making sure our hair did not touch our collars, and our bangs above our eyebrows. Enter the drama surrounding hair cutting in our home. Always wanting to experiment, I needed my father's permission to go short. Next, I think about the time I grew my hair out into a bob ten years ago or so, thinking I needed hair in order to look feminine. My husband pops into my mind next with his words, "Don't ever let your hair grow long again. You look much better with short hair." And, now I'm wondering if I need another hair cut.
All that in thirty seconds. This isn't the jog down memory lane I took today, but rather an example of how fast our minds recall incidents otherwise inconsequential but clearly tucked away only to be pulled out when there's a trigger. Today, my reaction to the M4.9 "earthquake" in North Korea jump-started a similar process.
I remember back to a time an associate of mine, finding she was pregnant said to me, "I'll lose my gold status on the airlines and hotels now. I won't be able to travel for at least a year." I believe I shot back with "You've become quite the travel snob" reeling at how her priorities were as horribly askew. Today, the word "snob" also applies to me. Word and memory association stopped there today. I was stuck on the the fact I've become a snob.
Who gets her socks knotted up into a bunch over "who's earthquake is bigger"? Where's the concern, sympathy, and genuine hope no one was injured? Why did my mind jump to competing over the size of an earthquake as opposed to valuing human life? I'm ashamed. I'm embarrassed. I'm also more than a bit peeved with myself.
The conclusion I've come to over my little mental connect-the-dots snafu is this: I'm reminded all over again I've simply become complacent. When leaving my apartment, I no longer ask myself if I'd really like to walk home in these shoes if the trains stop running. I used to, and in the summer would carry around a pair of flip-flops, just in case. I don't carry extra cash around knowing if there's a massive black out, shutting down banks for days or even weeks I'll certainly need cash to survive. There are earthquakes somewhere in Japan every day. While I can't live my life always worrying about "the big one" I similarly can't be as laissez-faire as I am about the fact there will be consequences to having an uncharged cell phone, no cash, and heels that will leave me with blisters the size of Montana if I have to walk more than a kilometer.
North Korean nuclear tests aside, the mental exercise I took today jolted me back into a mode of consciousness I've been lax about of late. And, I hope everything's okay in North Korea. Not in the, oh-go-test-another-bomb-why-don't-you way, but in that the people there, the ones who don't have a say are really okay.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Tokyo Station Blues
Let's establish some basic facts: 1). I am not directionally challenged, 2). I am comfortable in large crowds, and 3). I'm not careless. How then can one location I visit repeatedly cause me so much grief? Enter Tokyo Station and I'm off my game. The ground under me must shift into another dimension. If it were an isolated incident here or there, if these mysterious encounters with confusion happened elsewhere with similar frequency I would be more inclined to acknowledge the possibility I just might be slipping. This is not the case. There's something about Tokyo Station that throws me.
I've already established with a series of rants on multiple sites the fact I had my first encounter with a pickpocket last week. Yes, in Tokyo Station. Of course. Again, I'm not one of these careless, "Oh look how much cash I have," or "Let me just hold my wallet in my hand as I walk" people. I've been in large crowds more often than not in my life. I'm cognisant of the issue of personal space, especially here in Japan. So, no. I was not being dumb, naive, or flighty last week as some deft pickpocket grabbed my wallet from inside my purse and made off with my last dime. That, dear friends, was Tokyo Station playing a very nasty trick on me.
I've long since found Tokyo Station to be a maze I can't seem to traverse well. The store my co-worker seems to be able to find every time is no longer there when I retrace the steps he surely took last time. Lest I acknowledge I can't find my way through a simple train station, I've had to stop myself from texting him several times, "Where is this place again?"
I seem to enter the station from a different entrance each time. This is quite an accomplishment, mind you, as there are only six entrances (that I know of), and I've been through the station dozens of times. Granted, the station went through a major makeover the past year. A large brick structure that looks like it belongs in downtown London versus Tokyo, my understanding is the number of entrances did not change. So, that reason doesn't apply either as to why once I'm inside everything seems to be somewhere else. Surely that store wasn't here last time?
Today, as I proudly make my way through Tokyo Station, even finding a bakery that has the most wonderful cranberry and cream cheese rolls (the same bakery I've looked for over the past ten or so trips) I congratulate myself on successfully navigating myself through with ease. Perhaps the culmination of minor annoyances ending in last week's pickpocket incident--the crescendo of minor to major trouble--knocked my station mojo back into place. Do I dare hope?
No. Of course not. Why do I let myself think these things? Standing on the platform, I think through which door to enter my train car from. When bullet trains head from north to south cars and seats are in order, starting with one at the front, all the way up to car ten/row twenty in the back. All roads lead to Tokyo. So much so that trains going north are said to be going "down" (as in "away" from Tokyo) whereas trains going south towards Tokyo are going "up." It is truly a very good thing I'm not one of those people that can't find my way through a train station.
So, I look at the train car. It's heading down, away from Tokyo (although we're going north--stay with me, people) so the seats are in which order.....the train car in the front is 10 and the back car is one, so.....it's a good thing this isn't actual math or anything. Working through train car logic that surely can't be this hard I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"Hi!" A man looks at me, big smile on his face.
Oh, this is not happening to me. I have no idea who he is.
"Hi! I say back, hoping by the time we start having a conversation I'll actually remember who he is. "How are you?" Keep the conversation going, girl.
"I'm okay. Busy," he says, and "Got to keep going, though."
"What were you doing in Tokyo?" I stall with this question. I've still got nothing. No clue who this man is. He answers me but I'm not really listening because I'm concentrating hard and I think I've got it. I'm pretty sure, in fact. Forgetting for a moment this is Tokyo Station and very little goes right for me here, I say, "Firefighter, right?" He looks at me with that oh-woman-you-crush-me look. What? I'm wrong? This isn't that fire fighter guy I know? He tells me who he is and where we met. I'm so off it's embarrassing. It's bad.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He forgives me, but do I sense only reluctantly? "I promise I'll remember next time," and with a few more comments offering goodwill towards each other we part.
And, of course I enter the train through the wrong door, fighting the those looking for seats in rows with higher numbers at the front of the car, because, girl you will some day get this right; high numbers point away from Tokyo. Some day, I will learn these rules and cure myself of these Tokyo Station blues. Evidently, however, today is not that day.
I've already established with a series of rants on multiple sites the fact I had my first encounter with a pickpocket last week. Yes, in Tokyo Station. Of course. Again, I'm not one of these careless, "Oh look how much cash I have," or "Let me just hold my wallet in my hand as I walk" people. I've been in large crowds more often than not in my life. I'm cognisant of the issue of personal space, especially here in Japan. So, no. I was not being dumb, naive, or flighty last week as some deft pickpocket grabbed my wallet from inside my purse and made off with my last dime. That, dear friends, was Tokyo Station playing a very nasty trick on me.
I've long since found Tokyo Station to be a maze I can't seem to traverse well. The store my co-worker seems to be able to find every time is no longer there when I retrace the steps he surely took last time. Lest I acknowledge I can't find my way through a simple train station, I've had to stop myself from texting him several times, "Where is this place again?"
I seem to enter the station from a different entrance each time. This is quite an accomplishment, mind you, as there are only six entrances (that I know of), and I've been through the station dozens of times. Granted, the station went through a major makeover the past year. A large brick structure that looks like it belongs in downtown London versus Tokyo, my understanding is the number of entrances did not change. So, that reason doesn't apply either as to why once I'm inside everything seems to be somewhere else. Surely that store wasn't here last time?
Today, as I proudly make my way through Tokyo Station, even finding a bakery that has the most wonderful cranberry and cream cheese rolls (the same bakery I've looked for over the past ten or so trips) I congratulate myself on successfully navigating myself through with ease. Perhaps the culmination of minor annoyances ending in last week's pickpocket incident--the crescendo of minor to major trouble--knocked my station mojo back into place. Do I dare hope?
No. Of course not. Why do I let myself think these things? Standing on the platform, I think through which door to enter my train car from. When bullet trains head from north to south cars and seats are in order, starting with one at the front, all the way up to car ten/row twenty in the back. All roads lead to Tokyo. So much so that trains going north are said to be going "down" (as in "away" from Tokyo) whereas trains going south towards Tokyo are going "up." It is truly a very good thing I'm not one of those people that can't find my way through a train station.
So, I look at the train car. It's heading down, away from Tokyo (although we're going north--stay with me, people) so the seats are in which order.....the train car in the front is 10 and the back car is one, so.....it's a good thing this isn't actual math or anything. Working through train car logic that surely can't be this hard I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"Hi!" A man looks at me, big smile on his face.
Oh, this is not happening to me. I have no idea who he is.
"Hi! I say back, hoping by the time we start having a conversation I'll actually remember who he is. "How are you?" Keep the conversation going, girl.
"I'm okay. Busy," he says, and "Got to keep going, though."
"What were you doing in Tokyo?" I stall with this question. I've still got nothing. No clue who this man is. He answers me but I'm not really listening because I'm concentrating hard and I think I've got it. I'm pretty sure, in fact. Forgetting for a moment this is Tokyo Station and very little goes right for me here, I say, "Firefighter, right?" He looks at me with that oh-woman-you-crush-me look. What? I'm wrong? This isn't that fire fighter guy I know? He tells me who he is and where we met. I'm so off it's embarrassing. It's bad.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He forgives me, but do I sense only reluctantly? "I promise I'll remember next time," and with a few more comments offering goodwill towards each other we part.
And, of course I enter the train through the wrong door, fighting the those looking for seats in rows with higher numbers at the front of the car, because, girl you will some day get this right; high numbers point away from Tokyo. Some day, I will learn these rules and cure myself of these Tokyo Station blues. Evidently, however, today is not that day.
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